


sweet dreams are made of this

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [19]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Awards, Awards Presentation, Babies, Big Dick Richie Tozier, Blow Jobs, Childbirth, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff, Includes Tweets, Kid Fic, M/M, Married Couple, Mirror Sex, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Tenderness, but only a few, emmy awards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “So, Richie, what compelled you to write so much new material once you came back from your hiatus?” the interviewer asks. Richie actually considers the question, draping his arm across Eddie’s shoulders again as he thinks. It’s such an absent-minded gesture that Eddie aches a little for loving him so hard.“I think it’s because this shithead could tell my material wasn’tmymaterial,” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair a little. “When he’s not laughing, man,I’mnot laughing, and that’s just grim.”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 62
Kudos: 597





	sweet dreams are made of this

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from ["Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1TfqLAPs4K3s2rJMoCokcS?si=6NJeIWWcTMqW1wfGu9gEMA) by Eurythmics.

The actual night of the Primetime Emmy Awards isn’t until _months_ after the nominations are announced, and, in all honesty, Eddie kind of forgets it’s coming up until Richie starts getting invitations to nominee dinners and shit like that. Bev had told them when they were _making_ Richie’s Netflix special that she’d get to dress him if he ended up at any awards shows. At the time, he’d laughed her off. She’d insisted, and he had said she’d get to dress _both_ of them if he was nominated.

Eddie finds himself hating Richie for roping him into this for _no reason at all_ when Richie unzips the garment bag with the red suit Bev wants him to wear.

“I don’t think so,” Eddie says. He glances to Richie’s face, but Richie’s still looking down at it.

“You don’t?” Richie says, reaching out to touch the suit. After a hesitation, he doesn’t touch it. Probably because he thinks he’ll fuck it up if he does. “I don’t know, Eds, I think you’ll look spiffy.”

 _“Spiffy?”_ Eddie asks.

“Spiffy,” Richie repeats. “Sexy. Et cetera.” They make eye contact, and Eddie sighs.

“What’s your suit look like?” he demands. Richie pulls his own garment bag off the door of the closet in their hotel room and, when he unzips it, Eddie sees a black suit inside. “Why do _you_ get to wear black? What the fuck?”

“Hold on,” Richie says, then hoists the garment bag higher and twists it one way, then another. Everywhere the fabric catches the light, it twinkles and shines. Eddie’s eyes follow it for a second before he looks back up to Richie.

“Isn’t it fucking _awesome?”_ he exclaims. “You have to help me into it, I have no idea how to wear something this fancy.”

“I figured,” Eddie says, as Richie sets the garment bag down and looks to Eddie.

“You first,” Richie tells him. Eddie skims off his clothes quickly. It’s almost strange, how easy it is to get dressed when there aren’t three children demanding his attention, but Eddie finds himself missing them anyways. They’re all the way back in New York, and it makes Eddie feel _horrible,_ but Richie was nominated for _six_ goddamned Emmys and he’d been devastated when Eddie had hesitated over going, so they’re here together and the girls are back home with Ben and Bev. They were going to stay with Stan and Patty, initially, but Patty’s due date is getting closer and she’s not really supposed to be doing much. Stan’s getting very mother-hen about it all.

“Do we have time for me to blow you before we go?” Richie asks. Eddie checks his watch.

“No,” he says, as he tucks his shirt into his pants. Bev got the measurements exactly right and the suit, though it is a very _deep_ red, ends up looking pretty nice on him. It fits well, and the red grows on him once it’s on. He pulls on his shoes and his blazer before turning to Richie. “What do you think?”

“I think we have _more_ than enough time for me to blow you before we go,” Richie tells him, getting his hands on Eddie’s waist and kissing him soundly. Eddie returns the kiss for a moment, his hand resting along Richie’s cheek before he pulls back.

“Get dressed first so we can leave right after,” Eddie tells him, because Richie’s said it twice now and that’s twice too many. His blood is thrumming hot under his skin as Richie shoves himself into his suit and tries to get his hair to lay flat in the mirror near their bed. When his back is turned, Eddie can’t help but stare at his shoulders, his hips, the broad planes of his back under the tight fit of his shimmering suit jacket. He feels warm, then _hot,_ and Richie makes eye contact with him over his own shoulder in the mirror.

“I owe Bev a million favors,” Richie says, looking Eddie over. “She made me look, like, twenty percent less like a troll.”

“You—” Eddie starts, then stops. “You’re not a _troll,_ Richie, you’re the m— You look good.”

“I’m the what?” Richie demands, grinning, climbing up and over the bed to grab Eddie by the shoulders and tackle him backwards to the mattress. Eddie goes, laughing, fighting against Richie’s grip. _“I’m the what!”_

“No, _no!”_ Eddie exclaims. Richie releases him, and Eddie flops onto his back, catching his breath. He feels flushed and horny and the way Richie’s looking at him, _fuck,_ they don’t have _time_ for this.

“Well?” Richie asks, once they’re both breathing normally again.

“Well what?” Eddie asks.

“What do you think of my suit?” Richie clarifies. Eddie sits up to actually look Richie over with an appraising thought rather than _tall hot square soft fuck fuck fuck._

“What I was _going_ to say,” Eddie offers, “is, you’re the most— and do _not_ let this go to your head— good-looking guy I know.”

Richie just looks up at him for a second with those fucking blind eyes of his before he says, “Bullshit, we both know Mike.”

“Even hotter than Mike,” Eddie tells him, leaning over and kissing Richie softly.

“Thanks, Spaghetti,” Richie murmurs against his mouth.

Eddie doesn’t have a tie, but Richie does, and he makes Eddie tie it for him. While Eddie’s working, his hands twisting in and around Richie’s throat, Richie reaches up and undoes the top three buttons of Eddie’s shirt.

 _“Richie.”_ Eddie reaches up to rebutton them, but Richie knocks his hands away.

“You look hot,” he says. “Leave it. Be my good luck charm, Eds.”

Eddie eyeballs him, but he doesn’t fix the buttons. Instead, he finishes tying Richie’s bow tie, then stops back. His entire outfit is completely black — not just the jacket and the pants, but his shirt, tie, shoes, and socks. It all blends into one glistening river in the late afternoon Los Angeles sunlight coming through the hotel windows.

Eddie checks his watch again. They have twelve minutes before the car is supposed to get here to pick them up.

“You have _seven minutes,”_ Eddie tells him. Richie drags him back over to the bed and shoves him down on the edge of it. He gets to his knees and undoes Eddie’s pants, pulling him out and taking him into his mouth in one swift movement. Eddie digs his hands into Richie’s hair, hunching over him and whispering, _“Yes,_ Richie, _fuck.”_

Richie makes a soft sound, and the sensation of it around Eddie’s cock is thunderous. He’s already hot and on edge, and the added time pressure is actually slightly intriguing to him. He cups Richie’s face in his hand for a moment, feels his jaw and his tongue working on his dick the same way he feels it under his fingers, expert and electric.

“Look at you,” Eddie says, and Richie moans. Eddie looks up and catches his own eye in the mirror next to their bed. He can see Richie’s back again, can see the curve of it as he folds to fit his long body into the space between Eddie’s knees. There’s something about it all — about the hard line of Richie’s spine through his suit jacket, about the fact that Richie’s _wearing_ a full fucking suit and looks hot as hell in it, about how Richie’s been nominated for a bunch of fancy awards and people are going to want to talk to him all night and yet here he is, sucking Eddie’s dick like it’s the only thing he actually wants to do tonight.

It’s that thought that pushes Eddie closest to the edge, and Richie picks up on it. He redoubles his efforts, guiding Eddie’s hands back to his hair. Eddie tangles his fingers up in it, watching in the mirror as he gently tugs on Richie’s hair. He hears Richie moan, and sees his head fall forward through the mirror. As he does, he takes Eddie’s cock down his throat fully, and that’s it. Eddie comes down his throat and watches himself do it in the mirror. Richie swallows it all down, which is for the best, because he’s pushing up against his seven-minute time limit.

“Oh, shit,” Richie says, once he’s pulled off and sat back on his heels. He unfolds himself and gets up, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asks. Richie motions to the bathroom.

“Brush my teeth,” he says.

“What about you?” Eddie pushes. Richie glances back towards the bathroom again.

“You said I only had seven minutes,” he says, and Eddie grabs him in by the sleeve, yanking his head down to kiss him once he’s close enough.

“Take your pants off,” Eddie tells him, and Richie scrambles to shove his pants back down. Eddie sits on the edge of the bed still and Richie stands beside it, and Eddie loves it, loves holding Richie’s hips in his hands and taking him as deep as he can, swallowing around him like Richie did for him. Richie’s a clown and a dickhead, yeah, but he’s also Eddie’s favorite person in the entire world and he loves everything about him. Anyone _else_ who calls him a clown and a dickhead can, should, and _will_ be run over by Eddie.

“Fuck, I love you,” Richie says quietly, like he can hear Eddie’s thoughts. Eddie licks the underside of his cock, and Richie comes down his throat in return, holding Eddie’s head between his hands as he does. When Eddie pulls back, Richie falls down to his knees again to kiss him properly.

“I love you, too,” Eddie tells him. He lets Richie kiss him for a couple seconds before he says, “Okay, _now_ we have to brush our teeth or we actually will be late for the car.”

* * *

They’re not late, and Eddie counts his blessings that he’s able to get Richie’s hair looking semi-presentable again as they’re climbing out of the car at the designated drop-off area. There’s a bunch of fans nearby, and somebody shrieks Richie’s name. He turns and waves, shielding his eyes from the setting sun with other hand as he does so.

“Ah, I can’t see shit,” Richie says. He keeps waving and grinning like he can, though, until Eddie regains his attention. “What’s up?”

“Those people want you,” Eddie tells him, and Richie spins to see a woman in a silver dress waving at them. He seems to recognize her, dragging Eddie over by the hand and beginning the first of many introductions that Eddie will try and fail to remember throughout the night. Turns out, though, that she’s there to help them line up for photos, then make their way to the start of the red carpet. There’s so many fucking _people_ there, Eddie almost feels claustrophobic, even though he’s literally outside.

He grabs Richie’s hand and feels his wedding ring against his fingers. Richie’s palm is sweaty against his, and he ducks his head down.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie murmurs. “What’s up, buttercup? You seem angsty.”

“It’s just crowded,” Eddie tells him. Richie kisses him on the temple, then pulls back to look him dead in the eye.

“Let me know if you wanna go,” Richie says, for the twelfth time since they first got in the car outside the hotel. Eddie squeezes his hand.

“I’m fine, Rich,” Eddie assures him, because he is. It’s not his scene, no, and it’s a weird fucking experience, but Richie’s got him. He’s not afraid when Richie’s at his side, as a general rule. Never has been.

“Richie!” someone calls out. Richie doesn’t look away from Eddie’s face. After a moment, he cups Eddie’s face between his hands and kisses him. Eddie smiles into it, then pulls back when he hears camera shutters.

“Free couples' photos,” Richie whispers, before he takes Eddie’s hand again and leads him over to the lines of photo circuits. All they’re supposed to do is walk, stop, and walk again, but Richie is Richie, and he keeps wandering off, ambling up to random photographers and reporters and just striking up conversations. Eddie follows, because he’s not in charge here. It doesn’t matter to him if Richie follows the rules or not; this is his domain, and he’s just gonna follow his lead.

“Yup, this is him,” Richie’s saying, jostling Eddie a little bit. “The O.G. Kaspbrak. I’m just a newbie.”

“You’re nominated as Richie Tozier, you dickhead,” Eddie tells him.

“You can just bleep us out, right?” Richie asks, and everyone who hears him laughs. “I hope they don’t really plan to give me an award, because I have no fucking clue what they’ll do with me once I’m up there. Do they still have the hook? They’ll probably have to dust off the hook to get me out.”

“I’ll do it,” Eddie says, and tugs him towards the next photo wall, much to the apparent amusement of the photographers they leave behind.

“Do you think I’ll win?” Richie asks, as they wait to be called over. He’s got his arm casually thrown across Eddie’s shoulders, now, and Eddie’s glad they got off before they left, because the warm line of Richie’s body along his in the fucking bespoke suit he’s shimmering in would’ve driven him to pure insanity by now otherwise.

“No,” Eddie says. Richie’s asked him a thousand times, and Eddie gives different joking variations of “no, you’re not funny” every time, because he’s not sure. _He_ thinks Richie should win, because he’s far better than most of the talentless hacks that he’s nominated with (in Eddie’s humble opinion), but a lot of those talentless hacks are popular and well-connected. Richie had a public breakdown, vanished for months reviving Eddie, then came roaring back onto the scene to host _Late Night,_ produce his own Netflix special, do fucking cartoon voice work, write all his own shit, and fucking _kill it_ going back to _SNL_ to show off how much better he’s doing.

It’s been an interesting year for Richie, career-wise. In his personal life, he killed an alien space clown, resurrected his childhood best friend, married said friend, and obtained three children through varied methods. For Eddie’s part, he left his wife, died, _was_ resurrected by his childhood best friend, relearned literally everything, started his own business, and _also_ married said friend and obtained three children with him. Eddie sometimes wonders how none of them get whiplash.

“So, Richie, what compelled you to write so much new material once you came back from your hiatus?” the interviewer asks. Richie actually considers the question, draping his arm across Eddie’s shoulders again as he thinks. It’s such an absent-minded gesture that Eddie aches a little for loving him so hard.

“I think it’s because this shithead could tell my material wasn’t _my_ material,” Richie says, ruffling Eddie’s hair a little. Eddie scowls at him, smooths it back down, but it’s nice to be rumpled slightly. It takes the pressure off of trying to stay perfectly neat all night. Richie’s good at shit like that. “When he’s not laughing, man, _I’m_ not laughing, and that’s just grim.”

“Between _Late Night,_ your stand-up special, hosting _SNL,_ and… something else,” the interviewer says, then laughs. “I’m sorry, I don’t even—”

“I voiced a medical droid in _Star Wars: Droid Stories,”_ Richie tells her, before dropping his head down closer to the microphone. It’s obvious — at least, it’s obvious to Eddie — what he’s going to do before he does it, but the interviewer’s not quick enough to stop Richie before he’s cupping his hands around the head of the microphone and quoting lines from the show in tone-perfect character voice.

“Eddie!” someone calls, and Eddie turns, brow furrowed, confused as to who the fuck would be calling him _Eddie_ at this thing. He’s relieved when he sees Bill waving at him, Mike grabbing two bottles of water from a table near the end of the photo area.

“Rich, it’s Bill and Mike,” Eddie says, turning back to the mini-interview. Richie clicks his tongue.

“Ah, alas,” he says to the interviewer. “The passage of time. Adieu.”

“Bye, Richie,” she says. Richie offers Eddie his arm, and Eddie takes it, letting himself be led off to the side. Mike offers them the water bottles, and Richie takes one gratefully, downing half of it in one go.

“You wouldn’t get so thirsty if you didn’t talk so fucking much,” Eddie comments. “I swear, we’ve been here two hours already.”

“More like half an hour, but nobody’s fact-checking you but me,” Richie says. He kisses Eddie with cold lips, frozen by the water from the bottle. Eddie hisses, but Richie pulls him back in, murmuring, “Warm me up, Eds, I’m _scared.”_

“You’re insufferable,” Eddie tells him fondly. Richie kisses his nose and retreats again.

“How was your _script writers luncheon?”_ Richie says, in a voice too snooty for a man whose writing credits _also_ include scripts.

“Long,” Bill says.

“Boring,” Mike adds. Richie laughs.

“Well, I hope you’re ready to lose an Emmy, Billy-boy,” Richie teases. Bill laughs right back; Mike drapes his arm across his shoulders, and Eddie makes eye contact with him. Mike just winks and mouths, _Couple of losers._ Eddie grins.

“R-Ready as I’ll ever b-be,” Bill says.

“Let me make the speech if we win, there, bud,” Richie says, and Bill punches him hard on the arm. _“Ow,_ you dick, I’m gonna _sabotage_ your next movie like the Phantom of the fucking Opera—”

“Keep it moving!” someone with a Bluetooth earpiece shouts at them. Bill grabs Richie by the wrist and yanks him forward to the red carpet, towing Mike and Eddie behind them like two bemused field trip chaperones.

Once they’re actually on the red carpet, they keep getting mixed up. Sometimes, they want Eddie to stay at Richie’s side, and sometimes they swap him out for Bill while Richie seemingly gets confused and tries to find Eddie again. Then, they bring Eddie back, so he’ll focus, but Eddie takes up space in the pictures, so they bring Mike back, and it’s all just a mess.

“I can’t wait to see these pictures later,” Richie says, halfway down the carpet. “I can’t even fucking see anyone, the flashes keep going off and I’m already half-blind.” As if to make his point, he stumbles over nothing and nearly falls flat on his face. _“See!”_

“Rich, c’mere,” Eddie says, tucking Richie’s hand into the crook of his elbow. Richie ducks his head, nosing along Eddie’s hairline, smiling when he reaches the shell of his ear. Eddie shuts his eyes, just for a second, and enjoys the warm sensation that spreads over him before self-consciousness steps in and he has to keep pulling Richie along.

The inside of the theater is both insanely organized and maddeningly chaotic. There are shitloads of people, and most of them are drinking, high, or both. They’re all being shepherded by fancy-looking security people, doing a fairly successful job of keeping people moving. Richie hasn’t drank in months — he hasn’t brought it up, but Eddie knows he hasn’t — and so he just steers Eddie toward a side door.

“I have no fucking idea where we’re supposed to go,” Richie says.

“I lost Mike,” Eddie says, trying to stretch up so he can see over the heads in the crowd. “I lost Bill and Mike.”

“Well, we’ll find them at our seats,” Richie tells him. Eddie takes one look at Richie, then tugs him deeper into the theater, through the side door and into a darkened hallway. There’s nobody in the hallway, yet, so Eddie backs Richie into the corner. “Really? Here?”

“I’m not going to blow you,” Eddie says, before he takes Richie’s jaw in his hands and reels him in for a kiss. Richie follows his lead so easily, like he was meant to do it, like he can read the intentions that Eddie’s body is telegraphing before Eddie himself even knows about them. Eddie nips at his bottom lip, and Richie opens his mouth obligingly. He licks along the backs of his teeth, slow, deep. He breathes through his nose, pulls in closer.

Richie slides his glasses up so they’re nestled safely in his hair and he can kiss Eddie closer, hard and warm in his mouth. His hands trace down Eddie’s chest to hold his waist.

“I love you,” Eddie murmurs. Richie smiles, kisses him lightly and pulls back before wrapping him up in a hug.

“I love you, too, Eddie,” Richie tells him. Eddie turns his face into Richie’s neck and just breathes, keeping his eyes closed. Richie smells faintly of hotel soap and his usual deodorant and cologne, plus a baby-powder smell that clings to all their clothes, now. He can feel Richie nosing into his hair, burying his face near the crown of his head. Richie’s suit is silky under his hands; he has to stop himself from fisting it between his fingers and wrinkling it.

“What’s a make-out with hugs?” Richie asks into his scalp. “A hug-out? Is this a hug-out?”

“Shut up,” Eddie says. Richie’s hands drift up Eddie’s back, holding him closer, broad palms and long fingers stretching across the blades of his shoulders under his jacket. He melts into his warmth.

“Do you— Oh!” a woman says, coming through the side door with a man, sending them leaping apart as if they’ve been Tased. Eddie vaguely recognizes both of the actors. “Sorry, we thought this was the way to our seats.”

“It very well may be,” Richie tells her. He takes Eddie’s hand again and says, “Let’s find out!”

* * *

Technically, Richie’s already won one of the six awards. They hadn’t been able to make the Creative Arts Emmys the week before, because Riley had had a cold and Richie had cried when it was time to leave for his flight, so he hadn’t ended up going, claiming a family emergency. Instead, they’d watched it on the television, and Richie had been on Skype standby. When he won his Emmy for his voice work on _Star Wars: Droid Stories_ , Eddie lied and said he didn’t cry, but then, when the show was over, he fucked Richie into the guest room mattress and whispered how proud he was of him in his ear, so. He thinks Richie knows how he feels.

He’s not sure how he’s going to feel by the end of this night. Like he keeps saying, the other people in Richie’s categories are intense contenders. They’re such big names that Richie hasn’t been predicted to win by pretty much anybody, even if people are nice and friendly to him now, for the most part. It’s just that they all underestimate him.

Eddie’s known Richie his whole life. Underestimating him is a _fatal_ mistake.

Bill and Mike find their seats only a few minutes before the lights go off, on, off, and on again to signal the incoming start of the show. They’re sat right next to Eddie and Richie, and Richie’s on the aisle, fidgeting helplessly. He keeps bouncing his leg, stopping. Pulling at his jacket, stopping. Playing with Eddie’s fingers, stopping. Finally, Eddie just grabs his hand and kisses the back of it.

“Do you think I’ll win?” Richie asks softly. It’s different than the other times he’s asked. Eddie thinks about the other nominees, and thinks about Richie, and actually considers it.

“I think you should win,” Eddie says. “I think if you _don’t_ win, it’s fucking rigged.”

“That’s a nice way of saying no,” Richie says.

“That’s not—”

“No, I think the same thing,” Richie tells him, just as the lights go dark. Eddie squeezes his hand, and Richie squeezes back, knee bouncing again.

Richie’s first category is only the third one called, which is for the best, because it’s still twenty minutes in and Richie looks like he truly might explode. It’s Outstanding Guest Actor in a Comedy Series, and Richie’s been nominated for hosting _SNL._ Eddie thinks that, if Richie’s going to win one of the awards, it’s not going to be this one; Robert De Niro is fucking nominated, for Christ’s sake. He’s pretty sure Richie’s thinking the same thing, because he’s sweaty but he’s slumped in his chair.

That just means that he looks absolutely shell-shocked when they announce his name as the winner. He just sits there for a second, unmoving as the light hits him.

“Richie, get up,” Eddie whispers. His heart is pounding, and Richie looks stunned still. Eddie turns his face towards him in the guise of a congratulatory kiss. Against Richie’s lips, Eddie murmurs, “Babe, you won.”

Richie pulls back and grins. “And you said I wasn’t gonna win.”

“I did _not—”_ Eddie starts to insist, when Richie kisses him again. Bill shoves at them both, says, “Richie, _g-go—”_ and Richie does, gets up and waves and bounds down the aisle and up the stairs onto the stage. He takes the award and holds it up high, then laughs, once. It’s a wet laugh. Eddie’s sure he’ll be crying within five minutes.

“I can’t believe I won an actual award just for hosting one episode of a show I previously got fired from,” Richie says, and the audience laughs, Eddie included. He’s nearly crying himself, Bill’s hand squeezed tightly in his, Mike’s hand slung across Bill’s shoulders to hold Eddie’s shoulder, too. _It’s mostly adrenaline,_ he tells himself, even though it’s not, and he knows that.

“If I don’t get to say it again, I just wanna say thank you,” Richie says into the microphone. “I know I fucked up— Whoops, alright, already did exactly what they told me not to. Well, you know, they don’t call me Trashmouth for nothing— What, twenty seconds?” Eddie laughs, and Richie’s eyes go to him. He sparkles. “Right, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for… giving me a second chance. Thanks for being my second chance. Thanks for letting me be me.”

It’s a speech to the crowd, yeah, but he says it looking through all the lights and cameras and eyes, he says it looking right at _Eddie,_ and Eddie’s whole face burns. He wishes he was up there just so he could kiss Richie. Fuck how mortified he’d be, fuck everyone who sees them, he just wants to be with him.

“And thanks to my darling Eddie,” Richie says, “and my three beautiful girls, who are too small to understand why they can’t watch me on _SNL_ pretending to dry-hump a mermaid. Okay, thank you again, bye!”

Eddie laughs so hard he cries — or vice-versa, he’s not sure — as Richie leaves the stage. Bill hugs him, stretched across the arm of their seats between them. Luckily, they don’t keep Richie interviewing backstage that long, and he returns in a couple of minutes.

“They don’t let me hold onto it,” Richie whispers to him. “They made me take a bunch of pictures and answer questions, and they said I can get the award back when I leave tonight.”

“I’m… _so_ proud of you,” Eddie whispers back. Richie cups his face in his hand and kisses him hard.

“Let me know if you’re still proud by the end of the night,” Richie says.

“Richie, you’ve fucking won _two_ Emmys,” Eddie replies. “It doesn’t matter that your job’s made up, I’m still proud of you for winning awards at it.”

Richie stifles his laughter in Eddie’s mouth, then says, “They should be giving _you_ the fucking awards.”

Richie’s lamented more than once to Eddie that comedy isn’t taken as seriously as drama is, and the award system is front-loaded with the comedy categories. It’s only two categories later that they’re announcing Outstanding Writing for a Variety Series. Eddie knows all the names they list, because Richie’s been going over their work _methodically_ and listing all the reasons they’ll beat him since he got nominated.

He’s arguably _more_ shocked, this time, when, on stage, Kate McKinnon laughs and says, “Fucking— _Late Night with Richie Tozier,_ written by Richie Tozier—”

She’s still listing the other writers Richie works with, but Richie’s kissing Eddie again and Eddie can’t hear her anymore.

“I don’t—” Richie starts to say, then stops. He shakes his head, then kisses Eddie again before getting up and jogging off. He catches one of his writers around the shoulders — Jennifer, Eddie thinks — and all but carries her onto the stage, laughing the whole way.

“You motherfuckers can’t get enough of me!” Richie shouts into the microphone. Someone must motion to him near the teleprompter, because he says, _“You_ are the ones who chose to let me in! You know what I am and you _still_ voted for me!”

“Richie, _give a speech,”_ Jennifer insists near the microphone. The audience laughs again.

“Write your own jokes, kids,” Richie says. “It’ll pay off.” He makes eye contact with Eddie and winks before he’s being dragged away again.

“He’s going to be insufferable after this,” Eddie comments to Bill and Mike. They both laugh, and Eddie’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He forgets to pull it out, though, because Richie’s coming back and sitting down, hugging Eddie so hard he can’t breathe for a second.

“Careful,” Richie tells him, “I’m going to start thinking I’m good at this shit.”

Eddie almost says, _“Can’t have that,”_ but instead he says, “Richie, you _are_ good at this shit. I’m not kidding. I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Richie smiles at him as the light hits his eyes again. They’re already rolling into Outstanding Variety Talk Series, and calling out the nominees. Richie grins and waves, looking sheepish up on the screen as he pulls away from Eddie like he’s been caught making out with him in a movie theater.

When the presenter (someone from an HBO show, Eddie thinks?) sighs with a smile and announces, “The winner is _Late Night with Richie Tozier,_ with executive producer and host Richie Tozier, _”_ Eddie can’t help but audibly laugh.

“I can’t live with you after this,” Eddie insists. Richie gets up and tries to haul Eddie with him, but Eddie shakes his head vigorously and stays put. One of Richie’s producers catches him by the wrist and drags him back up on stage.

“I’m not letting him talk this time,” one of the other executive producers says. Eddie knows her from dinners he’s gone to; he thinks her name is Molly. Richie throws his arms up, jokingly disgruntled, and starts taking awards from the other producers for himself.

He’s gone a little longer, this time, and Eddie starts to get fidgety as they get closer to the variety special categories. The last two categories — Outstanding Writing for a Variety Special and Outstanding Variety Special (Pre-Recorded) — are also the two that Richie is most nervous about. He put so much into _SNL,_ and he consistently puts so much fucking work into _Late Night,_ but his Netflix special was the first thing he felt was all his. He was so proud of it, when it was recorded, when it was released on Netflix, when he was nominated for it.

Richie gets caught up, Eddie knows, in the whirls of imposter syndrome. It’s hard not to, because he does, too — it’s hard to imagine _Richie Tozier,_ of all people, winning awards that people like— like Gene Wilder and Bob Newhart have won. It’s not that Richie’s not as good as them (he’s _better,_ Eddie insists), but it’s that those people don’t seem like _real_ people, and Richie is his _husband._ It’s like a weird dream sometimes, this chaos that is their daily life.

“Hey, sorry,” Richie says, breathless when he falls back into his seat. “Too many fucking people on my show. Pictures took forever.”

“Richie, you—” Eddie says, then stops. He kisses Richie on the cheek, then says, “You’re _really_ good at this shit. You’ve got _four fucking awards_ saying you’re good at this shit.”

Richie huffs a laugh, eyes wet. “Eds.”

“I just want you to realize how good you are at this,” Eddie says, “is all. Because you don’t. You sell yourself short like a jackass. Maybe now you’ll stop.”

“What a lovingly aggressive way to tell me that,” Richie says, disgustingly fond, and kisses Eddie again. It’s chaste, compared to what else they’ve done today, but Eddie flares up at it anyways.

It’s four more categories, this time, before they get to Outstanding Writing for a Variety Special. Mike’s hand loops around again to squeeze Eddie’s shoulder; Bill’s holding one of Eddie’s hands in his, and Richie’s got Eddie’s other hand in a death grip. This one’s all Richie, just like the _SNL_ category; if he wins, it’s all him. Even moreso, it’s _all_ him: he wrote the entire thing himself, workshopped it to hell and back, practiced and rehearsed and worked and worked and _worked_ until it was perfect, and then pitched it and got it distributed to Netflix. He did _all of it._ Eddie knows how much it means to him to win.

The other people in the category are kind of insane. Besides people Eddie actually knows like Adam Sandler and Amy Schumer, Beyoncé is _actually_ nominated for writing a movie for Netflix. Richie’s buzzing beside him, practically shaking out of his skin as they list the nominees and, when Henry Winkler pulls the card with the winner’s name out and reads it, he grins.

“Good for you,” he says, before saying, _“Richie Tozier: Jerk Alert,_ written by Richie Tozier for Netflix.”

Richie buries his face in his hands and takes a deep breath. Eddie rubs his back, leans in close and kisses the side of his head.

“Go,” Eddie tells him, and Richie does, gets up and moves on autopilot. When he takes the award, this time, he seems blown away, and he laughs tearfully at the microphone. This time, the tears actually start tracking down his face when he blinks, and he rubs at them with his sleeve.

“You dickheads,” Richie curses into the mic, and everyone laughs. “You made me cry. That’s six more weeks of winter, you damn idiots. Now we’re doomed.” He looks down at the award, presumably reads his name on it, then laughs softly again. “Fuck. If you’d pulled out a crystal fucking ball twenty years ago and _showed_ me that I’d be here right now, I still wouldn’t have believed you.” He looks at the award for another moment, then looks up. “This one’s for the losers out there. You’re not alone. You’re gonna make it, too. I don’t need a crystal ball to tell you that.”

Richie leaves the stage to wild applause and whistling, both started by Eddie, who’s on his feet as soon as Richie stops talking. Mike and Bill shoot up, too, Mike whistling louder than Bill and Eddie put together. Bill whoops, shouts, “Go, Richie!” and Eddie _laughs._

The crowd quiets again, and Richie comes back looking pinker than he had when he left. Eddie presses the back of his hand to Richie’s forehead, frowning when he finds him cold and clammy.

“I threw up,” Richie confesses quietly. “But then I scrubbed my face with cold water and I’m good now.”

“Jesus Christ, Rich,” Eddie says. He digs through his pockets before he comes up with a box of mints.

“How do you do that without your fanny pack?” Richie laughs weakly, as Eddie shakes three mints into his hand. Richie crunches right down on them like a fucking caveman and sighs. “Thanks, Eds.”

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks. He wipes the new tears gathering in Richie’s eyes away. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s alright.”

“I’m just so—” Richie says, then waves his hands around, unable to finish.

“M-Makes sense,” Bill says, around Eddie. “I’m proud of y-you, buddy. _S-S-So_ proud of you.”

“That goes double for me,” Mike adds. Richie laughs, burying his face in his hands again and taking several deep breaths.

“Can I just pass out for ten minutes and you can tell me after the last one’s done?” Richie asks, his voice muffled by his palms. Eddie rubs his back again, then pulls him in to hug from the side.

“You’re okay,” Eddie tells him. “One more, and then you’re good.”

The next category is three away, but it’s Richie’s last. It’s Outstanding Variety Special (Pre-Recorded), which, technically, isn’t for just Richie. Bill’s nominated, too, for being an executive producer with Richie, and Bev’s nominated for her producer credit. Richie’s nominated for his performance, too, and that’s it. Nobody else was involved. The three of them produced it, Richie wrote and performed it. It’s _his._

And it wins. Of course it wins, and the look on Richie’s face — Eddie hopes his DVR recording is good at home, and he hopes they caught that expression, because he’d do anything to see it again. He turns to Eddie, indescribable in that moment, and stands up. He drags Eddie with him and kisses him, hard, in front of everybody. Eddie can’t even find it in himself, in the moment, to be embarrassed or self-conscious or any of the other things he’s felt when Richie’s showed him any degree of affection tonight. Instead, he just feels _proud._

“I love you,” Eddie tells him. Richie sobs against his mouth, holds Eddie’s face in his hands and kisses him again.

“Come on, Rich, come _on,”_ Bill laughs, once he separates from Mike and pulls Richie into the aisle himself. Richie goes, waves at Mike and Eddie before he does. It’s just the two of them, up on the stage, and Richie lets Bill go first, since he’s already gotten to try this _several_ times tonight.

“Thank you,” Bill says. Eddie can see how hard he’s concentrating, trying not to let one word slip. He’d heard him muttering _he thrusts his fists against the post and still insists he sees the ghosts_ over and over under his breath before the category was announced. Eddie’s memories of that are all wrapped up, now, in Richie using it to help him relearn talking, and he can’t help but feel even harder, to dig deeper and get that well of fucking _adoration_ sprung. “This means— so much to us. After all we’ve been through. Thank you.”

“A master wordsmith, my Bill,” Richie says into the mic, clapping Bill on the shoulder before looping his arm around his neck and yanking him in for a noogie. Bill laughs, shoving him off. Richie grabs the mic and says, “You magnificent, _magnificent_ bastards. _Thank you.”_ He looks out and makes eye contact with Eddie again and says, “Eds, baby, this is for you.”

“This is for _you!”_ Eddie shouts back, before he can (over)think twice about it, his hands cupped around his mouth. Richie lifts his award in the air and, after a moment, Bill does the same, and they clink them together like they’re glasses.

“This is for us,” Richie compromises. He lifts the award again, as if giving a last toast, and goes off stage. Eddie’s phone buzzes again, but he doesn’t even notice it in favor of standing up and clapping and shouting Richie’s name so loud he thinks he hurts his throat a little.

“Hey, Eds, check your phone,” Mike says, as the audience quiets down and the next category starts up. Eddie tugs his phone out and sees so many missed calls and texts that his lock screen is clogged with notifications. Most of them are from Stan, but there’s a few from Ben and Bev, too, and he unlocks his phone with shaking hands.

“No, no,” he murmurs anxiously, eyes scanning his texts for any mention of the girls’ names. He finds them, finds a text from Bev that says, _I’m going to the hospital, Ben’s staying home with Riley, Audrey, and Nora, they’re all asleep already, don’t worry,_ and it just makes Eddie worry more until he opens Stan’s messages to the group chat.

 _Patty’s in labor,_ the first message says, and after that it’s a minute-by-minute update sent to the seven of them. He scrolls all the way to the bottom before he hits a picture message sent by Bev, and he opens it. It’s Stan and Patty together with their new baby.

Richie sits down heavily beside Eddie, forcing Bill to crawl over him to get back to his seat. He beams at Eddie, but Eddie forgets to look up, just for a second. He feels horribly guilty about it when he _does_ look up, because this is arguably one of the biggest things to ever happen to Richie, but he’d just gotten lost.

“Look,” he says, shoving his phone into Richie’s hands. Richie takes it with a confused furrow to his brow, but his whole face just cracks open and shines with joy when he realizes what the picture is of.

“This is the best day of my life,” Richie says firmly. “I have everything I want.” He reels Eddie in and kisses him, then says, “Oh, fuck, we have to get back to New York—”

“The show—” Eddie interrupts, but Richie’s already standing.

 _“Stan has a baby,”_ Richie whispers, and Eddie’s heart thumps. He turns to Mike and Bill and motions to them, and they follow him without question. Richie and Bill sneak off to grab their awards before they leave, and Eddie just waits outside with Mike for the Lyft Mike called to come.

The Lyft driver eyeballs them as they get in, four grown men leaving halfway through the Emmys with armfuls of awards, just a block down from the theater, but he doesn’t ask any questions, bless him.

“Should we have s-s-stayed for afterparties or s-something?” Bill asks Richie from the passenger seat, turning around to look at him.

“Fuck afterparties,” Richie says sincerely. “Stan’s only gonna have this baby once, I’m not missing anymore than I already have.”

That’s the simple truth of Richie, Eddie thinks. He won six goddamned fucking Emmy Awards — six, _six in one year,_ every single _fucking_ one he was nominated for — and he’s still on his phone in the back of a Lyft, booking them all the earliest possible flight back to New York to go see their best friend’s newborn baby. That’s what Richie does. That’s who Richie _is._

The earliest flight is in an hour and a half, so Bill gives the Lyft driver twenty dollars out of his pants pocket if he pushes the speed limit, and they make it back to their hotel in record time. They’re packed and in comfortable clothes in record time, and in their Lyft minutes after that. Eddie’s overall _very_ impressed with his friends when they actually make it to the airport on time and, more than that, _get on their flight._

“On our way,” Richie says out loud, as he types the message into his phone. He holds up his phone with the selfie camera facing the row of the four of them and says, “Smile, jackasses!” They do, and he sends the picture to the group chat.

 _safe flight,_ Stan replies.

After a moment, he sends, _I love you guys so much. thank you._

Richie smiles down at his phone. Eddie sees him open up his separate text conversation between just him and Stan and start typing, so he looks away, as much as he wants to know what they’re saying. Instead, he focuses on his own phone. His lock screen is of Riley, Audrey, and Nora sleeping near each other, and his home screen is… also of the three of them, laying on a blanket together while Richie sits next to them on the floor and reads to them. He’s distracted by missing them viciously, for a moment, even though it’s only been two days.

He opens their group chat, saves the picture of the four of them on the plane, then opens the picture of Stan, Patty, and the baby again. Stan says they haven’t decided on a name yet, but that he’s a boy, he’s healthy, he’s tall, and he’s, apparently, wonderfully loud, according to Bev’s messages. Eddie zooms in on the baby’s face. After a moment, he smiles.

“Richie, look,” he says quietly. Richie leans over, locking his phone to take Eddie’s from his hand. He grins, too, looking at Stan and Patty’s son.

“He’s cute, isn’t he?” Richie comments. “Cute little face.”

“He looks just like you,” Eddie points out. Richie glances at him, then back at the baby’s face, squinting a little.

“I dunno,” Richie says, but Eddie scoffs, taking his phone back. It doesn’t sting quite as bad as he thought it would. Part of it, he wonders, might be Nora; mostly, he knows, he doesn’t hate this as much as he feared he might, seeing a baby that looks like Richie that isn’t theirs. Instead, it just gives him this— this warm, spread-honey feeling, the knowledge that that little piece of the Losers will live on after they’ve died. It’s a little morbid, but, as somebody who _has_ died, Eddie feels he’s earned the right.

“I do,” Eddie says. He looks down at the picture again and can’t help it; the corners of his mouth turn up again. “He’s your carbon copy.”

* * *

They land in New York at six in the morning, and Stan tells them Patty’s asleep, so they all trudge home to shower and nap before regrouping at ten. Richie’s out like a light the second his head hits the pillow. Bev texted and said she and Ben would bring the girls and their things to the hospital, and so they have a few uninterrupted hours of rest before Eddie’s phone alarm goes off.

“Motherfucker,” Richie spits, but they shower and change clothes again before heading for the hospital. They’re the first ones there; Stan collides with Richie the second they see each other in the waiting room.

“Richie, thank you _so much,”_ Stan says urgently. “So, _so_ much. And— Don’t think I didn’t catch up, you fucker, I _saw_ the stupid pictures of you holding all _six fucking awards_ you won last night. _Congratulations.”_

“Ugh,” Richie says, “my pleasure on all fronts.” He kisses Stan on the cheek and pulls back so Eddie can hug him, too. “You should’ve seen Eddie’s face when we needed to get a separate suitcase at the airport because the bag weighed too much.”

“Your _ego_ weighs too much,” Eddie shoots back. Richie hauls him back in to hug again, then yanks Stan in to join them.

“Well, show me the fruit of my loom,” Richie says, after a bit, and Stan shoves at him.

“Disgusting,” he tells him, but he leads the way down the hall. They get to the nursery, behind a tremendous glass wall; there’s lines and lines of sleeping babies, and Eddie can’t tell them all apart. Privately, he thinks that his girls are _way_ cuter than any of _these_ kids, but he stops himself from commenting on it, barely.

“That baby’s so _ugly,”_ Richie whispers lowly to Eddie as he passes him. Eddie snickers behind his hand. “Nora’s _way_ prettier.”

“I was _just_ thinking that,” Eddie hisses back. Richie laughs.

“If you two are done,” Stan says dryly, “this is my son over here. But take your time giggling like children, please, by all means.”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie says, at the same time Richie says, “You _love_ our bullshit.”

“Get over here,” Stan orders, and they do. He points to a bassinet that, sure enough, holds the same baby from Stan’s picture yesterday. The name sheet slipped in the sleeve on the front of the bassinet says _Ezra Richard Uris_ in Stan’s scribbled handwriting. Eddie sees it first.

“I thought you hadn’t named him,” he says, choked up. Richie glances at him, then looks back up at the baby. He looks even more like Richie in real life, Eddie notes.

Eddie looks up just as Richie sees the baby’s name, too, and his eyes well up. “Oh, Stan, you _fuckhead,”_ Richie says, his voice breaking on _fuckhead,_ and he turns into Stan to hug him and start crying. Eddie drops his cheek against Richie’s back, rubs his shoulder. Stan’s hands brush his face when he hugs Richie back.

“I just wanted you to be the first to know,” Stan tells him. “Everyone else will be here at eleven.”

“You’re _tricky,”_ Richie laughs. He pulls back.

“Oh, and, wanna be his _kvater?”_ Stan asks. Richie punches him on the arm, and Stan laughs, _“Ow,_ you dumbass—”

“If I pass out, it’s because my circuits overloaded,” Richie says to Eddie as he hugs Stan again.

“Come meet my son,” Stan says eventually, and drags Richie around to the nurses’ station so they can go to Ezra. Richie lifts him so carefully, just like he does with the girls when he doesn’t want to wake them up; seeing their faces so close together, Ezra’s the spitting _fucking_ image of Richie. It’s scary.

“Sorry about his genetics,” Eddie comments.

“Yeah, it’s eerie, isn’t it?” Stan replies. “Guess there’s worse things.”

“Glowing review of my face, thanks,” Richie says tearily. He sniffles, then says, “Oh, fuck,” and he’s silently crying in earnest. He passes Ezra off to Eddie and lets Stan rub his back until he calms down.

“I feel like this should be the reverse,” Stan says to Eddie.

“You’d think,” Eddie says, “but it’s Richie.” He looks back down at Ezra and says, “Hi, bud. Good to meet you. Good luck with your eyes.”

“Dickhead,” Richie says.

A nurse comes and says it’s time for Ezra to go back to Patty anyways, and they can come if they’d like, so they do. Patty and Richie burst into tears when they see each other, and Richie sits on the edge of the bed with her, holding her while she hugs the life out of him.

“Thank you,” she says into his shirt.

“Thank _you,”_ he tells her. He rubs her back, just like Stan had just done for him, until she’s calmed a bit, leaning her head against Richie’s shoulder. “I heard you put in a lot of hard work. Overtime, probably. You should get a raise.”

Patty laughs tiredly. “Yeah, I should.” She looks to Stan, then says, “You have to eat me out twice as much from now on.”

Stan’s face flushes and he looks out the window when Eddie and Richie both look to him, Eddie with a raised eyebrow, Richie with a wide, shit-eating grin.

“She’s got a lot of painkillers,” Stan mutters, before he says, “Hey, look, Ezra’s awake, look at that.”

It’s cheap, as a distraction tactic, but it works. Richie scoops Ezra up and passes him off to Patty, and Patty makes all the same sounds about how similar they look while Richie beams at her. He sits on the bed with her while Eddie and Stan take the room’s two chairs until the rest of the Losers show up. Eddie knows as soon as they get to the hallway, because he can hear Riley already.

He goes out into the hall, and Riley runs at him. As soon as she gets close enough, she jumps, and Eddie catches her. Richie will usually swing her around or throw her in the air, but Eddie just kisses her cheek and settles her on his hip.

“Daddy won?” Riley asks. Richie ducks out of the room and kisses Riley all over her face while she shrieks with laughter.

“Daddy won big time,” Richie tells her, going to Ben and taking Audrey out of his hands and Nora out of Bev’s, one in each arm. He buries his face in between their heads and says, _“Fuck,_ it’s good to be home.”

“Such a long, hard journey you’ve had, winning a fuckload of Emmy Awards,” Bev comments.

“You won one, too, dipshit,” Richie reminds her. “It’s not _my_ fault you’re too nauseous to fly. So am I, you don’t see me bragging about it.”

“He did vomit on the flight th-there _and_ on the f-flight back,” Bill adds.

“Ah, but I _also_ blew Eddie in the airplane bathroom and stole an apple juice box that I wasn’t supposed to take, so,” Richie says, “more wins than losses.”

“Glad you joined the mile high club in your forties,” Mike says.

“Glad I heard about it on the second day of my son’s life,” Stan tacks on dryly.

“Hey, I _joined_ the mile high club _years_ ago,” Richie argues, as everyone heads into Patty’s room. “I _did.”_

“I believe you, Daddy,” Riley says.

“Don’t,” Eddie tells her. “Don’t agree with him. It’s a grown-up topic.”

Riley frowns at him, then looks to Richie again. After a moment, she says, “Don’t leave again.”

Richie’s face crumples a bit before he schools his expression back together and swoops in to kiss Riley on the forehead five times, in loud, fast succession. She erupts with laughter as he blows a raspberry on her cheek, too.

“I’m not going anywhere, short stack,” he tells her. He looks up at Eddie and winks, and Eddie’s heart thumps in his chest, flips over and knocks against his rib cage. He leans up, and Richie takes the hint. They kiss softly, Riley dropping her head against Eddie’s chest as they do. They don’t have enough free hands to touch, but it doesn’t matter.

Eddie’s exhausted, and he can tell Richie is, too. He’s still rumpled and soft, and now he’s warm and flushed, and he looks happier than Eddie’s ever seen him before. He kisses him again, just because he can and just because he wants to, and then murmurs, “Thank you for making me so happy.”

Richie grins and says, “Right back atcha, dollface,” kissing him a third time, a fourth; halfway through the fifth, Riley forcibly separates them with her hands on their chins.

* * *

**_71st Emmy Awards Nominees and Winners_ **

* * *

**OUTSTANDING CHARACTER VOICE-OVER PERFORMANCE**

_Kevin Michael Richardson_

as _Rosie_

_F Is For Family_

_Alex Borstein_

as _Lois Griffin_

_Family Guy_

_Seth MacFarlane_

as _Peter Griffin_

_Family Guy_

**_Richie Tozier_ **

**as** **_JR-1_ **

**_Star Wars: Droid Stories_ **

_Hank Azaria_

as _Moe_

_The Simpsons_

_Eric Jacobson_

as _Bert_

_Sesame Street_

* * *

**OUTSTANDING WRITING FOR A VARIETY SERIES**

_Documentary Now!_

_IFC_

John Mulaney, Written by

Seth Meyers, Written by

_Full Frontal With Samantha Bee_

_TBS_

Melinda Taub, Head Writer

Samantha Bee, Written by

_Last Week Tonight With John Oliver_

_HBO_

Dan Gurewitch, Senior Writer

John Oliver, Written by

_**Late Night with Richie Tozier** _

_**NBC** _

**Richie Tozier, Head Writer**

**Jennifer Morgan, Written by**

_Saturday Night Live_

_NBC_

Michael Che, Head Writer

Colin Jost, Head Writer

_The Late Show With Stephen Colbert_

_CBS_

Opus Moreschi, Head Writer

Jay Katsir, Head Writer

* * *

**OUTSTANDING VARIETY TALK SERIES**

_Full Frontal With Samantha Bee_

_TBS_

Samantha Bee, Executive Producer/Host

Jason Jones, Executive Producer

_Jimmy Kimmel Live!_

_ABC_

Jimmy Kimmel, Executive Producer/Host

Jill Leiderman, Executive Producer

_Last Week Tonight With John Oliver_

_HBO_

John Oliver, Executive Producer/Host

Tim Carvell, Executive Producer

_The Daily Show With Trevor Noah_

_Comedy Central_

Trevor Noah, Executive Producer/Host

Steve Bodow, Executive Producer

**_Late Night with Richie Tozier_ **

**_NBC_ **

**Richie Tozier, Executive Producer/Host**

**Molly Dixon, Executive Producer**

_The Late Late Show With James Corden_

_CBS_

Ben Winston, Executive Producer

James Corden, Producer/Host

_The Late Show With Stephen Colbert_

_CBS_

Stephen Colbert, Executive Producer/Host

Chris Licht, Executive Producer

* * *

**OUTSTANDING GUEST ACTOR IN A COMEDY SERIES**

_Matt Damon_

_Host_

_Saturday Night Live_

_Robert De Niro_

as _Robert Mueller_

_Saturday Night Live_

_John Mulaney_

_Host_

_Saturday Night Live_

**_Richie Tozier_ **

**_Host_ **

**_Saturday Night Live_ **

_Rufus Sewell_

as _Declan Howell_

_The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel_

* * *

**OUTSTANDING WRITING FOR A VARIETY SPECIAL**

_Adam Sandler: 100% Fresh_

_Netflix_

Adam Sandler, Written by

_Amy Schumer: Growing_

_Netflix_

Amy Schumer, Written by

_Carpool Karaoke: When Corden Met McCartney Live From Liverpool_

_CBS_

Matt Roberts, Head Writer

James Corden, Written by

_Hannah Gadsby: Nanette_

_Netflix_

Hannah Gadsby, Written by

_Homecoming: A Film By Beyoncé_

_Netflix_

Beyoncé Knowles-Carter, Written by

**_Richie Tozier: Jerk Alert_ **

**_Netflix_ **

**Richie Tozier, Written by**

Wanda Sykes: Not Normal

Netflix

Wanda Sykes, Written by

* * *

**OUTSTANDING VARIETY SPECIAL (PRE-RECORDED) - 2019**

_Carpool Karaoke: When Corden Met McCartney Live From Liverpool_

_CBS_

Ben Winston, Executive Producer

James Corden, Producer

_Hannah Gadsby: Nanette_

_Netflix_

Kevin Whyte, Executive Producer

Hannah Gadsby, Performer

_Homecoming: A Film By Beyoncé_

_Netflix_

Beyoncé Knowles-Carter, Executive Producer / Performer

Steve Pamon, Executive Producer

**_Richie Tozier: Jerk Alert_ **

**_Netflix_ **

**William Denbrough, Executive Producer**

**Richie Tozier, Executive Producer**

**Beverly Marsh, Producer**

**Richie Tozier, Performer**

_Springsteen On Broadway_

_Netflix_

Bruce Springsteen, Executive Producer / Performer

Jon Landau, Producer

_Wanda Sykes: Not Normal_

_Netflix_

Wanda Sykes, Executive Producer / Performer

Page Hurwitz, Executive Producer

**Author's Note:**

> I went back and forth on how many awards he should win before I decided, fuck it. We only get to be happy in fiction anymore. I'm gonna do what I want, and I want Richie Tozier to win a bajillion awards, and so he did! I wanted Eddie to be incredibly saccharine about it, and he was! We love to see it.
> 
> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)!


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